


Letters from the Barricade

by DecayingLiberty



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Epistolary, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post-Barricade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 11:16:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 3,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11160756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DecayingLiberty/pseuds/DecayingLiberty
Summary: Combeferre sits them all down and hands each of them paper and quills.





	1. Paris, 4th June 1832 — Café Musain

_Paris, 4th June 1832_

Combeferre sits them down the evening before the funeral when the last preparations are done, and all they have left to do was to sleep and wait. The air thrums with anxious excitement and it seems to vibrate with the bodies assembled in the room, amplifying laughter and heartbeats.

In the instances between a laugh and heartbeat, where the world stops and slows, Combeferre senses the fear that mingled with dying hope, laughter too grating, hands clenched too tightly and words too fast. But fear has never brought them far, so he sits them all down and hands each of them paper and quills.

They don’t say a word. They understand and they grow somber as they take the quills and the ink and the paper, and their laughter takes the edge of a sob, and steady breaths become sharp intakes of air that was choked out of their lungs, almost too fast, almost panic.  
The quills scratch over coarse paper. It’s silence and they mourn what could have been.

Enjolras sits in the corner in the shadows of the room. He ponders and doubts and watches them. Coarse paper crinkles in his pockets and with each movement he feels the weight of it against his chest, seven lives like seven bullets.

When Combeferre looks over to Grantaire, he finds him asleep on the table, a crushed half-written letter in his clenched fist, ink on his fingers and tear tracks on his cheeks.

He doesn’t wake him.


	2. Paris, 5th June 1832 — Post Office

_Paris, 5th June 1832_

Combeferre counts six letters, his own included, and the familiar sigils stare up at him as if to mock their cause with the eloborated crests stamped onto them.  
It almost hurts to look and to think of those who have abandoned aristocracy in favour of a cause they do not fully understand, and in the interval between two heartbeats, Combeferre senses the fear in the pit of his stomach again and he wants to burn the letters and tell his friends to run.

“You lost this.”

Combeferre looks up at Enjolras who has come out of the post office and he looks like Combeferre feels. There are dark circles under his eyes, his hair is dishevelled and to protect himself from the chilly morning breeze, he pulls Bahorel’s too wide red waist coat tightly around his shoulders which he still holds up with determination, passion and fire.

The letter in Enjolras’ hand is plain without even a wax seal, instead the writer has bound it together with a rough thread that is fraying at its edges and Combeferre takes it carefully.

“It will be a long day,” says Enjolras, “Rest until the time comes.” Then he turns and leaves the place.

Combeferre shakes his head and he looks down at the letters in his hands. There are seven now and the plain letter is Feuilly’s. 

_This letter doesn’t fit in,_ Combeferre thinks and frowns.

Then he thinks of Feuilly.

Feuilly who doesn’t have a family crest to stamp onto his letters, who never used sealing wax, and who still writes like a child because writing was a skill he only developed in the last years.

Combeferre looks at this plain letter that was tied with the rough wool addressed to an orphanage in shaky handwriting. He turns it and looks again and suddenly he is laughing.

_Yes,_ he thinks, _I fight for people less fortunate than Feuilly, for the children and for the women, for equality._

When he opens the door to the post office with the bells chiming softly in the morning breeze, he wonders why he even started doubting.


	3. Paris, 6th June 1832 — Musichetta's room

_Paris, 6th June 1832_

Silence lay eerie like a blanket over Paris. Soldiers patrol narrow alleys and broken streets, looking for survivors, counting the dead. The air still smells like gunpowder, still smells like blood, and she pulls her shawl closer around herself as she tries not breathe, tries not to cry, not to run after the soldiers to look herself.

Dread has settled into the pit of her stomach like lead, like stone, and with every step she takes, another stone settles. She can taste the metal on her tongue and she is shaking.

She rubs her red hands together which are still sore and pruned from when she was called to clean. She barely remembers the other girls but she remembers red. Red everywhere: on the streets, on the walls, on her dress and on her hands.

There had been no word.

The house is silent when she arrives. The only light that burns is in the old landlady’s room right next to the entrance.

“Musichetta, dear, is that you?”

“Yes, Madame.”

* * *

The letters look pristine and unsullied in the face of her dirty dress, and yet the crimson seals are too red for her and she tears them away and crushes them in her clenched fist.

She wants to hope, she wants to wish, but she knows before she even opens the letters and she wants to shout her anger and her frustration into the sky but she doesn’t.

Instead she grips the golden ring she wears around her neck and lays her head down onto a forgotten white shirt.

* * *

> _My dearest Musichetta,_
> 
> _the news of my death must have reached you long before the arrival of this letter and I fear that I am no longer capable of returning to your side._
> 
> _You have been a blessing to me and had we but more time I would have asked for your hand in marriage._
> 
> _I gave my life willingly for a cause far greater than ourselves for I believe that it is our duty to show hope and compassion towards those less fortunate than we._
> 
> _What irony it is, that I have run fom diseases all my life, fearing each day might be my last, but now that I have chosen and accepted my death, I no longer feel afraid ouf dying._
> 
> _Do not weep my love. If we shall meet again in another life, it will be an honour to be your lover again._
> 
> _I’ll be forever yours,_
> 
> _A. Joly_

* * *

> _Beloved Musichetta,_
> 
> _I am sorry that I, too, must leave you and, still, if I were not fighting or our cause myself, I cannot imagine a life without Joly._
> 
> _Do not worry, we are not alone in death, we have each other. I promise to look after him in what may come in the afterlife._
> 
> _The months I have spent with the two of you have been the happiest I have ever been. I still remember the warmth of your delicate hands in mine and the sound of his laugh in the safety of your room._
> 
> _If our love was wrong, then so be it. I do not regret any of it and I hope, neither do you._
> 
> _I love you. Let us meet again in another lifetime._
> 
> _Bossuet_

* * *

She dreams of love and liberty.


	4. Paris, 7th June 1832 — The Orphanage

_Paris, 7th June 1832_

Mail arrives at noon this day when Madame Innocence is registering the new children who arrived at the orphanage last night, brought in by weary guards who looked as somber and subdued as the night has felt. The battle has taken its toll on all of them: the children who have curled up and pressed their hands against their ears to drown out the gunshots amd cannons and the nurses who have worked through the night, trying to calm those who have been terrified.

Paris is a ghost town. Mist still hangs over the empty streets and only those who have businesses to attend to have dared to walk them. The sun doesn’t break through the clouded sky as if she, too, hides to mourn the many young lives that have been lost yesterday.

Madame Innocence signs and seals the last letter and makes a note for the accountancy of the orphanage before she tucks the documents away. There is so much to do. The uprising leaves them all sore, weary, and so very afraid.

Then she reaches across her desk. There is a single letter left unread and it takes all her her strength to untie the fraying wool thread around it.

* * *

> _Dear Madame Innocence,_
> 
> _this will be the last letter I send you for if you receive this letter, it means that I must have died when I fought alongside my comrades at the barricade on the day of General Lamarque’s funeral. I have fought for a brighter tomorrow, a world where children need not to starve._
> 
> _The world has abandoned me but I am not willing to abandon it in return. Even in the face of death, I have the duty to protect and speak for those in misery that they may be offered the same opportunities that have been given to me._
> 
> _If our lives and names shall be forgotten, then let our deaths be remembered._
> 
> _I donate all my belongings to the oprhanage._
> 
> _Feuilly_


	5. Côte d'Azur, 7th June 1832 — Family Bahorel's Fishery

_Côte d’Azur, 7th June 1832_

His mother is still strong although old and frail and yet it does not stop her from tending to her garden and taking walks on the windy beach. But when she hands him an unopened letter he takes her trembling hands instead and guides her to a nearby seat.

“Maman, you must rest.”

“Not now, dear.”

“Maman —”

“Your brother is writing.”

He takes the letter and her smile is kind, her smile is gentle.

* * *

> _Dear brother,_
> 
> _if I shall die tomorrow then let this be my goodbye._
> 
> _I have tried to live my life without regrets but now I look back and I see so many mistakes. With every passing second, I wish for another hour, another minute more to right the wrongs of my past._
> 
> _Tomorrow, I will be fighing at the barricades. I want to spend the last moments of my life doing what is right and paving the way for those who have suffered injustices at the hand of our government._
> 
> _Our deaths will not be futile and even if I may not live to see a new world I will die in peace knowing that I had a part in it, however small it may be._
> 
> _I will not be able to see you grow old but I know that you will grow to be the great man that Father wanted you to be. Look after our old mother for me._
> 
> _My thoughts will forever be with you._
> 
> _Joachim_

* * *

His ears are ringing but if he pretends long enough, he can hear the sea soughing and the gulls shrieking on the horizon but his heart beats too fast, too painful against his ribs.

His mother holds his hand and she is still smiling, it’s wistful, it’s sad.

“Will he return?” she asks.

“No,” he says.

“Not ever?”

“Not ever.”


	6. Southern France, 7th June 1832 — Madame Prouvaire's garden

_Southern France, 7th June 1832_

She has woken up in that night with the sound of a distant gunshot and the echo of her child’s laughter in her ears. And in that moment she has known what had happened.

The letter arrives a few days later and she holds it in her hands so carefully she might as well have been holding the wings of a butterfly.

* * *

> _Dearest Maman,_
> 
> _Death is unfathomable. In all the years of my life, from childhood to the present it never has ceased to amaze me. And even so, I am not afraid of death, no, I am afraid of what comes after._
> 
> _People have tried again and again to glimpse behind the veil that seperates the dead from the living and those who succeeded could never return to tell. If my soul lives on after it has left my mortal body, I wish to remember this life. I wish to remember my brothers and sisters here in Paris and I wish to remember the beauty of being alive._
> 
> _I do not wish to die. There are so many things in this wretched world that I have not yet seen, so many experiences I have not had and yet, I know that I cannot leave my brothers to fight alone. Life is beautiful and at once so cruel that I hope Death will be kinder._
> 
> _Maman, this is a farewell. I thank you for raising me._
> 
> _Your loving child,_
> 
> _Jehan_

* * *

She looks up at the crimson sky and wonders what Paris looks like at dawn.


	7. Southern France, 7th June 1832 — Salon at the Combeferre Estate

_Southern France, 7th June 1832_

It  has been a week since Lamarque’s death and yet there has been no further notice from Paris, at least not since the news of the uprising on the funeral.

She is restless. Her corset sits too tightly around her chest, so she unlaces it, and maybe she looks like a madwoman but she has other worries that eat away at her but she knows, that even if her brother has survived, a letter will not arrive until the weekend. Yet —

“A letter has arrived.”

“So soon? Does my dear brother write?”

“It seems so.”

Her stomach drops as she takes the letter with trembling fingers. A letter so soon does not bring pleasant news and she tries to not think about its content until she has seen it with her own eyes, yet her hands seem to be frozen around it.

“Mademoiselle Combeferre?”

* * *

> _My dear sister,_
> 
> _I have given my life for those who still live in misery and for the very palpable dream of a free world. You might be angry with me and I cannot hold it against you but if you saw what I saw in Paris, the poor and the sick and the orphans, I am certain you would have done the same._
> 
> _There will be a time when all men and women are equal but until that time comes, we will never be truly free. I want to believe that our sacrifices have not been for naught._
> 
> _Do not grieve me too long. The world has taken too many tears already and I do not wish to be the cause of your long-lasting sorrow._
> 
> _Farewell,_
> 
> _Your loving brother,_
> 
> _Julien_

* * *

She isn’t sure if she is sobbing or laughing, it is something inbetween and she feels the rage bubbling just under the surface and ready to boil over. The letter crumples in her clenched hands but it doesn’t faze her. Her brother is dead.

 _It doesn’t matter_ , she thinks, _if my brother is dead. I am still here._

“Mademoiselle? Are you all right?”

She wipes her tears and pulls her corset together.

The king is going to pay.


	8. Southern France, 7th June 1832 — Monsieur de Courfeyrac's Mansion

_Southern France, 7th June 1832_

It has been years since he last walked these streets; years before he has gathered the strength to leave his old life behind him and start anew, a softer life, a life more kind.

Monsieur de Courfeyrac is not a fearful man. Fear is not what hinders him, but hope is. Hope that clings to his past, hope that is wishful and foolish, and hope that gets crushed.

It has been hope that took hold of him when he has taken the letter and it has been still hope that has kept him reading.

Yet, it is the fear of dying alone that makes him walk.

The letter lies in a drawer in the corner of his study, locked, and he sinks the key in the river.

* * *

> _Father,_
> 
> _if aristocracy is what it takes for you to forgive your dead son, then I shall remain unforgiven. I would like to think that this is not reconciliation but that would be a lie. So, this is reconciliation, after all._
> 
> _I do not seek your forgiveness or your approval nor do I want your pity or wish you sorrow. Tomorrow I will fight on the barricade and it was my decision alone. You have no fault._
> 
> _And despite all our differences, I am still your son. I might have been ungrateful to you and denied your name but I do not love you any less than I did when I was a child._
> 
> _I am sorry to leave you behind, too, and I am sorry that the first letter I send you after I have left is a goodbye._
> 
> _Do not worry, I will surely meet Mother in the afterlife. I will tell her that you miss her._
> 
> _Farewell, papa._
> 
> _Aurélien_

* * *

He mourns but he doesn’t look back.


	9. Southern France, 7th June 1832 — Monsieur Enjolras' study

_Southern France, 7th June 1832_

“Have there been no news?”

“No, Madame Enjolras.”

The worried frown doesn’t leave her face as she once again strides through her husband’s study, clutching a back copy of the newspaper in her hands which declared General Lamarque’s death.

“Not a word? There must have been something!”

“I’m afraid not.”

She slams the newspaper on the desk in frustration.

The sense of foreboding doesn’t leave her. It sends cold shivers down her spine and lets heavy dread settle in her stomach. It makes her anxious and it frightens her. She puts her arms around herself to calm her fast breathing and warm her hands when her husband opens the door to the study.

There is heaviness in his step and melancholy in his eyes that leaves them cold and empty, not at all resembling the warmth that she is familiar with. In that moment he seems more marble than flesh and she recoils.

“Angelique,” he says and his lips tremble.

When she takes the letter from his hands, she, too, wants to weep.

* * *

> _Dear Papa, dear Maman,_
> 
> _my inheritance will be donated to the orphanage._
> 
> _I am dead. It was my choice to die and I chose to fight for what I believe to be right._
> 
> _Papa, this world is cruel but I believe that it is capable of change but change does not come by sitting still We must raise our voices for those less privileged than us and against those who remain complacent in the face of oppression. I have made my choice. Now it is your turn to decide._
> 
> _Maman, I love you. I wish to see you once more but death is unpredictable. Yet, strangely, I am not afraid of dying. I want to make the right choices until the very end and I hope I did._
> 
> _I bid you farewell._
> 
> _Your son,_
> 
> _Alexandre_


	10. Paris, 8th June 1832 — Backyard in the ruins of The Corinthe

_Paris, 8th June 1832_

She walks through the familiar streets that are now no more than a shadow of their past selves. The windows stare down at her, empty and dark and shattered, and the broken pavement at her feet offers her no steady step.

Amidst the splintered wood, broken furniture and fallen lights, Louison finds the letter tucked underneath a bottle in the ruins of what once has been the Corinthe. It’s crumpled and ripped and the signature is faded where it had been drenched in wine, black ink smudged and almost unreadable, but she knows signature too well for having seen it so often on bar tabs when she used to switch shifts between the Musain and the Corinthe.

_“Monsieur, you need to go home.”_

_“Just leave me here to die.”_

She goes into the backyard and it’s still as beautiful as it has been before. Wild flowers almost drown in the high grass. Mère Hucheloup has refused to mow it down since it has been the pride of her late husband.

_“Fetch me another drink, Louison!”_

_“No, Monsieur.”_

_“No wine! What insolence!”_

_“I’ll accept your gratitudes tomorrow.”_

Louison kneels down next to the old bench where the sunlight shines the brightest and carefully lays the letter down with the small amount flowers she has collected from the yard. She places the empty bottle next to it and smiles.

* * *

> _Dearest Father,_
> 
> _your bastard son is dead._
> 
> _You are no longer required to deny my existence for I no longer walk the earth._
> 
> _I hope, you are happy now._
> 
> _R._

* * *

“Farewell, Monsieur.”


End file.
